


A Better Alchemist Than a Dancer

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Gen, Pre-Canon, Secret Samol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Aubrey's a better alchemist than a dancer, but that doesn't stop the Hitchcocks from teaching her.





	A Better Alchemist Than a Dancer

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Secret Samol, WordNerdKnitter! Please consider this fic set before any of the heists in the show. I love Aubrey bunches but never wrote anything with her, so thank you for this lovely excuse. :)

The dance hall is warm and bright, sunlight filtering through the windows and glittering off the mirrors. The wooden floors gleam, worn soft with iterations of footsteps. The air holds scent-memory of past people; sweat, leather, perfumes and colognes, all muddled together with the passage of time.

But the studio is empty now, save for the Hitchcocks and Aubrey. They twins are wearing their usual finery, clean and well-dressed in their cavalry jackets. Aubrey would feel positively shabby in comparison, even in her least-burnt clothing, except that's a type of uniform too, isn't it? She's an alchemist, no sense in dressing otherwise.

Ethan gives the music-box one final crank, nodding to Edmund. The twin flicks the sleeve of his collar, wiping imaginary dust off his fingers before sweeping low, soft leather boots sliding across the floor as he dips into the deepest bow that Aubrey’s ever received.

“Miss Zosim, will you do me the honor?”

The music-box gives a soft chime, cylinder in slow whirl as it catches on the steel comb inside the machine. Aubrey loves this music from metal and clockwork, and Aubrey doesn’t even know if she’d have agreed to these lessons if Edmund hadn’t promised to let her dig inside the machine, but she nods anyways. She bends her knees and takes Edmund’s hands, talons dimpling his skin.

“I’ll take the lead now, so if you get lost, just follow my steps,” Edmund says gently. He coaxes her into position, arms raised and palm-to-palm, her other hand resting at the curve of his elbow. Aubrey huffs through her nostrils, resisting the urge to rise on her toes. Their arms are almost uncomfortably high for her, but Edmund draws back his elbow and dips his forearm, making them somewhat more of a height without him stooping.

“This will be a basic box step, so think of it as tracing a square with our feet,” Edmund continues.

Aubrey stares down at her feet, scrunching her snout to keep her glasses from sliding. Easy for _him_ to say, when _she’s_ the one stepping backward and worrying about her tail!

Easier to think about the beautiful chime of the lamellae, the pins pulling music from the rotating cylinder. Aubrey’s heard of more complex models with drums or bells inside, and wouldn’t _that_ be delightful, but—

Aubrey steps on Edmund’s foot, and the thought goes rolling off the floorboards. “Sorry Edmund!”

“No worries, you’re not the first student to step on my feet,” Edmund chuckles. He's being awfully calm about this, even for a dance teacher, and Aubrey wonders if they have any bets riding on this lesson. _Probably_ not; they tend to be loud and reckless with his wagers

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Less bloody than when _my_ students hit me, right?”

“Back right, side left, close right foot to left foot,” Edmund coaxes, and Aubrey tries the steps again. They come together slowly, gauging distances and speed so that eventually they are somewhat in time with the music. Aubrey suspects this would be easier if they were closer to a height, but trying to wear heels would be like adding water to a grease fire.

“Once you get the hang of it, think more about the gliding, the rise and fall. We can rotate too, travel clockwise around the room—”

“If we're at an actual dance, wouldn’t it be easier to just follow the other dancers?” Aubrey asks.

Ethan lets out a snort, and Edmund shrugs sheepishly. “Well, you could. Easiest to just watch what’s going on if you’re not sure.”

They spend another half hour at it, even taking turns so that Aubrey leads, navigating about the studio with hesitant steps. Edmund turns Aubrey under his arm, then they corner around the music-box and the half-drowsing Ethan. Aubrey takes the chance to poke Ethan with her tail, startling him awake.

“I think that’s long enough,” Ethan says, transitioning from flailing hands into an overhead yawn, smooth enough that Aubrey wouldn’t have caught it if she didn’t _know_ he was just sleeping. “Fancy a snack?”

Edmund shrugs, and they shut the door behind them, letting the music-box continue playing to the empty room. “Wouldn’t say no to some crackers. Do we have any of that apple jelly left?”

Aubrey perks up.

“No, but we’ve got pear.”

Aubrey wrinkles her nose. “What about marmalade?”

“Orange jelly?” Ethan asks, falling into step with Edmund. It’s harder to tell them apart when they do this, when they're mirroring one another in isolation from anything else.

She wonders sometimes how's much of their interchangeability is cultivated, how much personal inclination. Telling which Hitch is which had started out as an observation, curiosity tinged with respect, but do they dream of themselves as separate individuals, or one and the same? When does the con blur into reality? It's not the kind of thing you just up and _ask_ though, so Aubrey resigns herself to never knowing.

“Orange marmalade?” Aubrey asks.

“No, what's the difference between marmalade and jelly?” Edmund clarifies.

Aubrey swishes her tail and flicks her tongue. “Rind? Marmalade has little bits of rind in it. Gives it a little bit of bitter along with the sweet.”

They go down the stairs into the hideout, Aubrey two steps ahead while Edmund and Ethan follow. Castille is already in the kitchen, seated primly at the table with her hat casually set across the back of her chair. She holds an avocado in one hand, gently squeezing the fruit and rolling it across her palm.

“You, uh, hungry there?” Aubrey jokes.

Castille smiles beatifically, obsidian scars bending in labyrinthine patterns. “Did you know that an avocado tree may produce between two and three hundred fruit per year?”

“Are we fruit smugglers now?” Sige grumbles, striding into the kitchen with a heavy step. He pulls bread and condiments from the pantry, gobbing mustard onto one slice of bread before assembling a sandwich bigger than Aubrey’s head.

Aubrey licks her lips, thinking of apples. “Well, that’s always a fallback if the information business doesn’t pan, right?”

Sige rolls his eyes. “Maybe for you.”

“I quite like fruit,” Castille says mildly.

Aubrey hops onto a chair as Edmund brings the marmalade, then helps herself to a generous scoop on toast. It’s light, easy conversation, around occasional flying crumbs. They discuss the price of apples in Nacre, the latest mazes of reconfiguration, the construction of the crosstown train; small things, almost inconsequential, but sieving fact from rumor and hearsay is their work’s foundation.

The Six may number only five, but Aubrey couldn’t ask for better friends at the table.


End file.
